


ode and deliverance

by sweetaugustblue



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Catharsis, Emotional Sex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual grieving, NSFW, Post-Coital Cuddling, Smut, all they want to do is protect people, sypha is the light of trevor's life, why does he blame himself for everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26939161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetaugustblue/pseuds/sweetaugustblue
Summary: Of all the enemies they’ve faced so far, this might be the most formidable—this heavy, burdensome failure, trailing them everywhere they go, seeping into the sacred space of whatever bed (or wagon) they share. They really are in the belly of the beast. Luckily for them, it was not anything Sypha could not conquer.(trepha hurt + comfort, catharsis, angst, and emotional smut)
Relationships: Trevor Belmont & Sypha Belnades, Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64
Collections: One Shots, One-Shots, Others





	ode and deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> i'm back again with more trepha smut... i'm not entirely sure what to say but after a months-long hiatus they've got me publishing my work online again so i'm rolling with it at this point. also thought it important to add -- i don't think this is necessarily how trevor and sypha process their grief over lindenfeld, but this was also a very self-indulgent fic. i love hurt/comfort fics combined with smut so i wrote this! hope you enjoy :)

When they leave Lindenfeld, with nothing but the stench of smoke and death snapping at their heels Trevor feels like he’s running away.

Of course, there’s no reason to believe that  _ Sypha  _ is running away. What happened there—the massacre, the deranged, senseless murdering at the hands of the Judge, all that innocent blood on their hands—there was no way for Sypha, with her good heart and even more generous soul, to have seen it coming. He was a fool to have ridden on the high of love and adventure for so long, doing, as Sypha put it, what he was born for, and even more of a fool to have missed the signs. And masquerading himself as a hero, a courageous adventurer like he dreamed of as a boy, it was every bit exhilarating as he remembered. Beating night creatures back into hell, dismembering vampires limb from limb—nothing compared to that high.

They lived Sypha’s glorious, thrilling life, full of light and goodness and monster-slaying. It was so good, Trevor learned to see good in others, and it even got him to work on some of his people skills.

But the one monster they failed to see might have been the worst of all.

It was only a matter of _when_ they would experience great failure, not if, and Trevor never wanted to see the day _his_ life caught up to them—dragging down Sypha in the process. He knew it would, but he couldn’t bear how it broke her. Trevor knew the sting of failure, knew how to cope with being, well, nothing more than a good-for-nothing bastard. But the way those feelings tore her up inside made his chest ache. Listening to her believe that she’d failed her mission, that she’d failed _herself_ (and him, too, but she knew better than to say that out loud), it made it feel impossible to carry on and look ahead.

Ahead, toward  _ Braila. _

She’s wrapped tight to his arm, trying to hold back tears, her eyes bitter and cold. That kind of face—he looks down at his hands, a dry nausea rising in his throat—that kind of raw, vile bitterness in her face, it just doesn’t suit her. It’s all his fault.

“This could not have gone more wrong,” she says, squeezing tighter to him, her voice dropping, “What happened?”

He won’t look her in the eye. He can’t bring himself to. “We’ve spent a couple of months living  _ your  _ life. Adventures and victories.” It all sounds bitter, but his cruel tone isn’t meant for her—it’s for  _ himself.  _ Right now he doesn’t care if she knows the difference.

The streak of a warm, wet tear on his arm makes him regret they’d even come here for this so-called adventure.

“And now, we’re living  _ my  _ life,” he spits out. The life of Trevor Belmont, miserable in every possible way.

* * *

The first night on the road they curl quietly into the back of the wagon, pull the sheet over themselves and clutch at each other desperately. Only the light stroke of Sypha’s fingertips on his arm betrays the silence, a brush of skin softly moving up and down his arm. Not a single hormonal animal in the undergrowth, nor the whistles and chirps of any frogs or crickets.

Trevor presses his lips to her temple in hopes of soothing her. It feels like the only thing he can do, besides hoping, damn near  _ praying _ his arms are enough to hold her together. He stopped worrying about himself years ago, but he’d be damned if he let Sypha sob to herself alone in the dark.

All night, she only asks him to hold her closer. Sleep never comes.

* * *

Somewhere almost a week out from Lindenfeld, in their pitiful wandering (any excuse not to head towards Braila quite yet), Sypha realizes they are low on all their rations (except water, of course). They need to wash their clothes, and the rivers are still high with melting ice chunks, so their baths are fewer and farther between. Trevor’s usual stink is not as apparent, but it still lingers on him, and even in the blankets they sleep on. 

Their food is not looking very promising. They’d fed all the apples to the horses, neither of them being able to stomach them after seeing the Judge’s tree; their other food rations, as little as they pick at them, are not going to last them much longer.

And, perhaps, Trevor  _ was  _ running away a little bit. Sypha couldn’t stand that.

“There’s a town five miles from here, to the east,” she suggests to him, looking over at him. Trevor brings the wagon to a stop at a fork in the road, the horses huffing a complaint in response.

“The sun will be coming down soon,” he mentions dryly.

Sypha frowns. “The only food we have left is some dried goat, bread, and…” She pauses her rummaging through their packs, picking up a large block of cheese with something green and awfully fuzzy growing on it. “Well, dried goat and bread,” and her voice sounds much more sad than she means it to be.

Dried goat and bread  _ was  _ a particularly sad sounding meal. The science experiment called “cheese” is left on the side of the road.

So they go in the direction of the town, arriving just as the sun has begun to redden the sky. It almost looks as if the horizon is ablaze, but the tinge of half-yellowed clouds gives it away as a trick of the light. It’s a small town. No children, Sypha notices, and somehow she is thankful for that. Trevor is silent.

Everything is somewhat alright until they get to the inn.

Money was not the problem; they were able to scrounge up enough coins for food, water, a bed for the night, and for Trevor, an ale. Not out of habit, but for somewhere to drown his woes. Sypha makes no issue of it, too tired and sad to make even one complaint. And why would she? Trevor had no other way of coping. She wishes she could hold him the way he holds her in the dark until the pain finally disappears.

But even has hers seems to ebb, his does not. She sees it in his eyes, hollowed out and dull, a cold and bleak emptiness wearing down on his shoulders. Sometimes, he does not even entertain her little quips, and it disquiets her even more. An ache twists tight in her chest when they settle into their room for the night, both of them watching the expanse of clean, unmoved bedsheets stare mockingly back at them, yet not moving towards or away from it. Neither of them feel that they deserve the intimacy of a perfectly carved wooden bed and feather down pillows, nevermind those pristine white sheets. Not now, maybe not ever again.

Sypha shakes her head furiously. Well, she’s determined to beat back that feeling with a fierceness. Succumbing to hopelessness is reserved for Belmonts, not for anyone of the Belnades name.

“Are you tired?” Trevor asks, his voice sounding more concerned than he means it to. As he speaks he turns to her, cocking his head to the side, almost,  _ almost  _ smiling. A strand of his loose brown hair falls over the scar on his eye. As if by some miracle, a sad smile tugs at his mouth. There’s that little glimmer of fire she loves in him—she mirrors his expression, her thumb rubbing over the fine line of scarred flesh on his cheek.

“Not very,” Sypha says. She notices, in the glowing light of the candles in the room, that the shadows under Trevor’s eyes have become more hard set into his face. She frowns.

They throw their things into a forgotten, shapeless heap in the corner of the room, beginning to remove their clothes like usual. Halfway through removing her tunic, fingers on the little tie holding her top together, Sypha stops and looks at Trevor. His overshirt has come off, but not his undershirt and pants, and with his finger and thumb still on his belt he looks back at Sypha, his stomach suddenly flipping.

Of all the enemies they’ve faced so far, this might be the most formidable—this heavy, burdensome failure, trailing them everywhere they go, seeping into the sacred space of whatever bed (or wagon) they share. But Sypha looks at him again and realizes the bed—what she really means is the act of  _ intimacy _ —is not the enemy here. In fact, Sypha wonders, it might just be the thing that pulls them back together.

“There’s a bed here,” Sypha states matter-of-factly, nodding her head in its direction.

“There is,” Trevor replies, looking at Sypha with something pressing at his mind. She can tell by the crease in his forehead, the worried look in his eyes. She realizes then that he won’t budge—not towards the bed, but not away from it, either. That is entirely left to her.

They really are in the belly of the beast.

Luckily for them, it was not anything Sypha could not conquer. Determined, she shakes her head, electing to not take off her clothes just yet. Extending her hands, she steps forward, timidly twining her fingers into Trevor’s. His eyes glint with exhaustion and defeat. It occurs to her then that Trevor has spent so much time comforting her that he’s had no time to process his own feelings.

Besides his one mug of ale, still on his breath when she draws him in closer to her, coaxing him to the bed.

“You do not have to punish yourself for what  _ we  _ failed to see in Lindenfeld,” Sypha tells him.  _ Please stop hurting yourself,  _ she wants to say. She settles onto the bed, bringing his hands over her shoulders. His thumbs rub into the crease of flesh between her shoulders and her neck. Still he does not get into bed.

“I’m not punishing myself,” he says defensively, but it’s a lie, he knows it, and Sypha forgives him anyways. Then her arms are around his middle, hugging him tightly, her lips pressing an affectionate kiss to his chest.

“We’ve both been.” Sypha utters this with her face pointed up towards his. She smiles, wrinkling her nose when she smells his clothes. “You reek, Trevor Belmont!”

“The sweet stench of failure,” he mentions sarcastically, rolling his eyes. His response shows promise though, a little bit of light in his voice, some inkling of happiness still inside him. This makes Sypha grin wickedly.

“I think that’s just your sweaty armpits.” He manages half a laugh then, losing it to a puff of breath through his nose. “Please be with me tonight, Trevor,” she whispers softly, her tone lower, barely there on her mouth. Her hands creep up his abdomen, pushing his undershirt further up his chest. Something of a chill runs down his spine; Sypha bites her lip as he finally peels it off of him, the warm candle light reflecting off of his tanned skin. Warmth blooms in Sypha’s chest as he bends down, hands circling her waist, pushing her onto her back.

“You’ve no idea the kind of people I’ve failed to protect like this. The pain—I’ve only better adjusted to it over time. It always…  _ hurts _ , Sypha,” he admits, looking away from her. Her gentle hand cups his cheeks and brings his gaze back to her.

“Not every hero has his day. It’s just as much your fault as mine. But there are still more people to protect, Trevor Belmont, and I don’t want to lose you to this.”

“You just don’t want to lose  _ me _ ,” he grunts, rolling his eyes. Of course he didn’t think himself worthy. Why would he, when he couldn’t protect one single town from not just one, but  _ two  _ factions of horribly cruel and terrible people?

Before she can stop herself a grin blooms on Sypha’s face. He’s snapped from his dark thoughts, back to this little room, where the Speaker magician Sypha Belnades is smiling up at him in the dim candlelight. That little grin—the one where her mouth suddenly contorts with joy, stretching wide across her face, her cheeks glowing with happiness—that could drive away any force of evil, internal or not. Hell, he’s half sure it could even burn up a night creature if she smiled big enough.

“I  _ can’t _ lose you, Trevor Belmont,” she confesses, embracing him tightly in her arms, holding him so close his lungs feel suffocated. She might tease him and call him her pet bear, but really, Sypha’s the one who hugs like one.

“You  _ could  _ lose me, at any moment in fact,” he corrects her, “but I think cutting our adventures short would make you terribly lonely, especially in Alucard’s dusty old castle.” A swat at his arm tells him to stop speaking bad about their dhampir friend. And, well, about himself.

“No,” Sypha murmurs, “I cannot afford to lose you, Trevor.” Her fingers grasp at his back, lost for a solution, instead only holding him. It seems to be enough; he leans into her, his hands clutching her head closer to his chest. His breath quickens—he’s never been comforted by anyone like this, not since he was a young boy, when his mother would scoop him into her arms after a long day of sparring, cooing and kissing him as if he were still a baby.

This was quite different. Here, he feels Sypha’s face pressed into him, her strong arms enclosed around him. In her embrace he can feel like somewhat of a man again. He was so stupid to forget that Sypha helped him out of the darkness of his old life. Sypha taught him how to have fun again, Sypha brought  _ light  _ back into him. A profuse warmth, the budding of love, a feeling he’d never surrendered himself to in his life.

Not until  _ she _ turned his entire world around. He’d have never found his true calling without her. He’d stay with her, do his best to feel like a hero, even if it meant bearing the burden of failure all over again. He’d do it a hundred times over if he could just have her here with him through it all.

How on Earth could he forget?

Trevor pulls away, taking her chin in between his thumb and forefinger. Her bright eyes look up at him, steadily gazing at him in adoration. He hardly feels like he deserves it—hell, he doesn’t even feel like the hero Sypha says he is. But he accepts it anyways, lowering his head to kiss her softly.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but being with her like this—intimate, and dare he say  _ safe _ —makes him feel a little more whole again. Slowly, and then all at once, Sypha kisses him too, parting her lips to breathe and sigh into his mouth, tugging him closer, her fingers locked around his neck and digging in his hair. As she leans back on the bed he settles one knee between her legs, letting his hips drop and his teeth tug her bottom lip. In response she tilts her head to deepen their kiss, her tongue stroking his. It feels overwhelmingly  _ good. _

“Be with me,” Sypha reiterates, her voice barely cracking. Trevor knows she doesn’t mean the wild humping and necking they usually do; no, she means she wants him to make love to her, the first time she’s ever asked something of this kind of weight. For her, though, he’ll do anything.

“I’m already with you,” he teases, nibbling her pulse point. His hands quickly undo what’s left of her clothes, and her hands wander mischievously over his hips, her touch suggestive.

Settled onto the bed, their bodies flush against one another and clothes deserted somewhere on the floor, Trevor sits up on his hands, admiring Sypha beneath him. Her pinkened cheeks look like they’re glowing, and her messy, orange hair is like a fiery halo around her head. She looks up at him like she wants to worship him and he doesn’t know if that kind of veneration excites or terrifies him. Maybe a bit of both. There’s no time to worry if he deserves it or not because his lips have descended to the scars lining her shoulder, kissing each stripe of flesh deeper than the last, all while her palms smooth over his back.

“Sypha,” he breathes her name like worship along her neck.

“I need you, Trevor,” she begs, pulling him into a hug as his growing length presses against her stomach. When she feels it there her deft fingers wrap around his shaft, pumping him gently in her hand as he chokes on the rush of breath in his throat. The stubble on his cheek tickles her neck as he turns his face inward, his tongue licking a clean line along her skin, one hand thumbing a hardened nipple. He palms her breast, the mound of flesh fitting perfectly in his fingers, the skin there intoxicatingly  _ sensitive. _

There’s a sudden primal urge in him, something that betrays his gentle nature. Sypha doesn’t seem to mind, as she’s got him in both of her hands now, one circled around his cock, the other massaging his balls in her hand. He sucks in a breath sharply, hips bucking into her involuntarily, smirking when she relaxes her grip to prevent him from spilling himself right then and there into her hands. In return two of his fingers slip inside of her, the familiar slick of her wetness coating them as he curls them inside her, the pressure right along her walls.

“ _ Inside _ me, Trevor,” Sypha whimpers, digging her nails into his ass cheeks and propelling his hips forward. She doesn’t mean his fingers.

A dark rumble of laughter escapes him, and she practically purrs in response. He hushes her with soft kisses along her rosy lips. “I love you, Sypha,” he declares. She presses her mouth to his more fervently, smiling through the kiss.

“I love  _ you,  _ Trevor Belmont, House of Belmont,” she whispers, half sighing and half laughing into his ear. Gooseflesh rises up on his neck just as he pushes his length inside her, feeling her suck a breath in as the sensation of him inside her is satisfyingly  _ full. _

Sypha’s back arches upwards, her stiffened nipples grazing his chest. Her legs spread naturally, welcoming more of him into her, fingers locking around his neck to keep him nearer to her. Just as Trevor begins to rock his hips, Sypha kisses his neck, teeth nipping just below his Adam’s apple. When he’s buried to the hilt he pulls back, again sinking himself inside her, the steady rhythm of their slapping hips becoming more frequent and intense. His mouth drops to take one nipple in his mouth, then the other, swirling his tongue and barely nipping his teeth around them.

The look she gives him is nothing short of seductive. She’s so beautiful underneath him it makes Trevor shake.

“Does it feel good?” He doesn’t say it for reassurance, but because Sypha is such a musical and responsive lover.

“It feels  _ so  _ good,” comes her sweet voice, making his erection twitch with need. “Oh—there,  _ there,  _ harder Trevor,” she mewls, biting her lip and smiling in ecstatic joy. Instead of succumbing to her warmth, one finger slips between her legs to rub her clit in steady circles, focused entirely on her pleasure. The hands around his neck come loose, falling helplessly to the bed as she writhes in bliss; in order to move faster, he pins her wrists down, lifting his hips and snapping back to thrust into her once more.

“You’re so beautiful Sypha,” he praises, and it’s probably the plainest thing he can say, but she doesn’t mind; he thinks, actually, she likes it, and might even want more. “You’re perfect—oh god, you’re  _ perfect _ .” Never until Sypha did Trevor revere another person. She wraps her arms tight around him, and he realizes it’s a hug. He slows his hips just enough to envelop her in his arms, laughing to himself a little when he realizes she’s probably only smelling his need for a shower.

Just when he thinks she’s run out of surprises, she giggles and brings her legs up and over his shoulders, allowing him to thrust even deeper inside her, filling her, making her reel with pleasure. Her toes curl and her legs begin to tighten up. She’s close.

One hand pins her wrists above her head, the other rubbing her clit in quick circles, Trevor’s thrusts matching every stroke of his thumb. It drives her wild, her voice high and airy as she keens, arching off the bed against him. She caves, finally giving way to climax. Before he spills himself inside her he pulls out, albeit reluctantly, his load spurting out thickly onto the creamy flesh of her stomach.

They lie there for a moment, basking in the immediate afterglow, brushing their noses together and smiling. Sypha’s breath fans across Trevor’s face, and her forefinger tucks a long lock of hair behind his ear.

“...Love you,” she mumbles, already half asleep. He laughs, heartily this time, taking the far corner of the sheet and wiping off her stomach.

When he pulls her into his arms—tucking her in gently against his chest, kissing her temple and running his fingers in her little mess of orange curls—he feels safe again, a little more whole. Her eyes blink blearily, wanting to nod off to sleep. She’s fighting to stay awake though, and he cocks his head in curiosity.

The icy chill of her foot on his calf nearly makes him yelp, and she snorts, laughing at her sneak attack.

“God, I hate when you do that,” he mutters, rolling his eyes and  _ snuggling  _ her. Maybe she  _ was  _ right about him being a bear.

“You love me,” she says, smiling.

“I love you,” Trevor whispers. His kiss to her forehead is tender, the hands caressing her shoulders and lulling her to sleep even softer. This, with Sypha in his arms—it helps him feel like himself again.

If there’s anything she’s right about, it’s that there’s more people who need their aid. But she’s wrong about needing him; it’s  _ him  _ who needs  _ her.  _ Even with the cold touch of her foot on his as she’s nodding off. Even with the faint snore of her exhausted body as she rests against his chest. Even with how she tells him their mission is impossible without him. And, on the verge of sleep, Trevor realizes he hasn’t been running away, but rather moving forward. It’s the only thing they can do, really. Press forward, keep falling into other stories while trying to form their own.

After all, they have each other for every misstep and stumble along the way. He finds that he is quite alright with that.

**Author's Note:**

> if u liked, leave some kudos! i've run out of ideas for trepha (for now) so if you have any you might like to see, leave a suggestion in the comments!! otherwise peace :)


End file.
